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“Butt of cores,” Marusja says with an accent thick enough to be a rhino’s dildo. “I’ll put you on the best table, Mr. Skulme.” She gestures at a spot near the window.
Art’s smile is panty-melting, and I’m talking about granny panties in Marusja’s case. “Marusen’ka, please. Will you finally call me Art?”
She giggles, and her cheeks turn the shade of a baboon’s ass. “Okee-donkey. Please, take chair.”
“Thanks.” He waits until I take a seat before sitting down himself.
“Why do you normally go to Easy Fume and not here?” I ask Art as Marusja hands us glossy menus. “Fancy seems more your style.”
“Parilkas are more hotter at my old ampler,” Marusja says.
“Is parilka a steam room?” I ask.
They both nod.
“You have usual?” Marusja asks Art.
“Yes, and two shots of vodka,” he replies.
She gapes at him. “Vodka, for you?”
Does his smile look fake? “Lemon and I want to celebrate our acquaintance.”
She nods. “Will bring.”
With impressive agility, she sprints away.
“Vodka?” I ask.
“Just to pose with in pictures,” he says.
I grin. “What’s your ‘usual?’”
“Tea with lemon.” He winks at me. “Also carrot juice and a salad. What would you like?”
Aww. I like his usual. Grinning wider, I scan the menu, which is all in Russian. I pull out my phone and launch the translator app. Soon, I’m reading the translated menu—not that it helps much. Even in English, the dishes don’t sound the least bit familiar. Then something called blins catches my attention, mostly because of the list of things it comes with: cherry preserves, honey, powdered sugar, and Nutella.
“What are blins?” I ask.
“They’re the Russian take on crepes,” he says with a smile. “You might’ve seen them written as blinis before. Now, let me guess, you’re looking at the sweet, not savory, version?”
I scoff. “Unless there’s a dessert menu, that’s what I want.”
He sighs. “At least it will go nicely with tea. I’ll get a whole samovar.”
Marusja comes back, carrying two shot glasses full of clear liquid.
I guess vodka orders are a priority here.
“Thanks.” He takes the glasses gingerly, then orders me the crepes. “Now could you take our picture, please?”
Marusja claims that she’s happy to help, but I detect a note of jealousy in the way she looks at me.
“Say cheese,” Marusja says, camera ready to go.
“Za zdorovye,” Art says and clinks his shot glass with mine.
We down the shots as she takes the picture.
